"QUARRELSOME HARRY."
The _Lucania_ had been in port forty-eight hours, and Mrs. Myers and her
party had been snugly quartered in one of London's most charming rural
nooks, at Hampton Court, with Robert Brierly close at hand, before
Ferrars ventured to visit the city.
Mr. Myers had discreetly remained in London, going from thence to meet
his friends at Hampton Court, but Ferrars, for reasons which he did not
explain, went to the city, as soon as he had assured himself of the
comfort and safety of his party, this assurance including the provision
of a watchful aid, who kept guard whenever Robert Brierly, himself now
well convinced of the need of caution, ventured abroad.
Leaving Mr. Myers thus to enjoy an evening with his wife and friends,
Ferrars hastened to "the city," where every stone seemed familiar, and
many faces were those of friends or foes, well known and well
remembered. To escape recognition his own countenance had been simply
but sufficiently hidden behind a disguise of snowy hair and rubicund
visage, both assumed as soon as he had parted from the group at Hampton
Court, for Ferrars realised that the battle was now on, and he had no
idea of giving the foe the chance possibility of an encounter. He was
well known at Scotland Yard, as well as to the chief of the department
of police, and it was to one of these officials that he made his way,
for he had two reasons of his own for hastening on, in advance of the
party.
Not long before leaving the "States," he had received a dainty notelet.
It could not have been called a letter. It came through the hands of
Doctor Barnes, and it was signed, "Lotilia K. Jamieson."
It is late afternoon when Ferrars reaches Oxford Street, after his
interview with several official personages, during which he has bestowed
upon each a number of typewritten cards, bearing what seems to be a
brief descriptive list, and as many photographs, faithful and enlarged
copies of the "snap shot" furnished him by the hand of Samuel Doran.
He alights from an omnibus at the end of Regent Street, and stands, for
a moment, looking down Oxford Street. He is not in haste, for he lets
cabs and omnibuses rattle by him, or stand, waiting for fares, and walks
slowly on and on. A mile and a quarter of shops, that is Oxford Street,
but Ferrars foots it sturdily. Past the Circus, beyond the region of
Soho, and he slackens his pace and consults a tiny memorandum book. Who
ever saw Frank Ferrars produce a letter or card, for reference, in the
streets of a crowded city? Then he smiles and paces on.
Bloomsbury. He is walking slowly now, and under his low-drawn hat his
eyes are very alert.
And now he is in that portion of Bloomsbury where, earlier, very early
in the century, the wealthy, and those of high degree resided. It is
comfortable and middle class now, and our pedestrian passes a certain
pleasant semi-detached house--not large, but eminently respectable--with
a stealthy, lingering glance, pausing, before he has walked quite beyond
it, as if to note some object of fleeting interest. Two or three times,
within the hour, he passes that house, now on this side, now on that;
once on the top of an omnibus, once in a cab, and driving very slowly,
and as close as possible.
It is fairly dusk when he slowly ascends the well scrubbed steps, with
the reluctant air of a man by no means sure of himself. He carries a
small package beneath his arm, and a card between the fingers of his
left hand, to which he shifts the package as he rings the bell.
"I beg your pardon, young Miss." It is a sour-faced damsel of uncertain
age who melts perceptibly under this adjective. "Will you tell me if
Mrs.--Mrs.----" He peers near-sightedly at the card he holds, and slowly
pronounces a name.
"No, sir; this is not the place."
"But, doesn't the lady stop here, Miss? It's some'res in this here
block, and somehow they've forgot the number, you see. Is there a lady
guest maybe, or a boarder belike?"
But the maid, quite melted now, shakes her head, and tells him that
beside her mistress, whom she names, and her mistress' niece, who stops
with them, "off and on," there are no ladies in the house.
The detective blunders on down the street, and, when the lamps are lit
he passes the house again. The lamps are lighted in the little dining
room now, and through a window which projects upon the corner, he can
see a table set for two. And now at last he is rewarded, for a maid
enters and places something upon the table; a lady follows, glances at
the table, walks to the window, and turns, with a quick, imperious
gesture, toward the maid; a little lady, with a fair face, pale, fleecy
hair and wearing a flowing silken gown of some soft violet shade. She
sweeps past the maid and seats herself at the head of the table, while
the young person--it is the same who attended so lately at the
door--comes forward to close the curtain. Slowly it is drawn together,
shutting in the lights, the table and the violet-clad figure, but not
until the watcher outside has caught a glimpse of a man, tall and, yes,
handsome, in a dark fierce fashion, who is entering at the door on the
other side of the room.
The watcher passes on. He has seen, once more, the woman who has,
according to his own confession, aroused in him "a profound interest."
And he has also seen, whom and what? A brother? A lover? A rival,
perhaps? Ferrars hails a passing cab now, and is driven swiftly towards
his room in the Strand, and as he rolls along, this comment, which may
mean much or little, passes his lips.
"So my little lady has doffed her mourning. I wonder what that may
mean?"
"I'm very sorry, Ferrars, but I fear there's a great disappointment in
store for you."
"A disappointment! How? And in what respect, Mr. Myers?"
Ferrars was seated opposite Mr. Myers in the office of Wendell Haynes,
solicitor, in Middle Temple Lane, where he had hastened on the morning
after his little adventure in Bloomsbury, and so prompt and eager had
he been that he had encountered the American lawyer at the very
threshold, Mr. Myers having just arrived, with equal haste and
promptness, from Hampton Court.
Solicitor Haynes and the English detective were not unknown to each
other, and when they had exchanged greetings, the solicitor left the
others together in his inner office. He was, by this time, fully
acquainted with all the facts, so far as they were known to Mr. Myers,
and he left them with a promise to rejoin them soon, when they should
have compared notes and gone over the ground already known to the busy
solicitor.
There was a look of suppressed eagerness upon the face of Ferrars, as he
seated himself opposite the shrewd American lawyer. His face, his
manner, his very silence and alertness as he held himself erect upon his
chair, a picture of calm force, long suppressed, but now out of leash
and ready for anything--anything except inaction; and that, his very
attitude seemed to say was past.
Mr. Myers had waited a moment, after they were left alone together, for
Ferrars to speak the first word, but the latter only sat still and
waited, and the lawyer, with characteristic directness, spoke straight
to the point. He had what he felt to be bad news to impart, and he did
not delay or play with words in the doing it.
But if he had expected disappointment or any change to cross that
keenly questioning face, he looked in vain. Ferrars only sat leaning
slightly toward him, waited a moment, and repeated his last words.
"In what manner? How disappointed?" And then, as the lawyer still
hesitated, he went on. "You find the case as it should be, eh?"
"The case! Oh, yes!"
"Are there any flaws?"
"No," broke in the lawyer.
"Any unexpected delays?"
"No."
"Any new claimants?"
"No, Ferrars. The Hugo Paisley will case is one of the simplest and
clearest of its kind. The last incumbent surely must have had a
wonderfully clear idea of how to do the thing he meant to do. Once the
claim is proven, and he makes that work easy, there need be no delays,
no chancery, no holding back for big fees. The agents in the case are
paid according to their expedition, and have every incentive to haste.
With the proofs in hand the heir could step at once into his fortune, a
matter of L200,000."
"An American millionaire, eh?" Ferrars smiled. "That, then, is quite as
it should be, especially as the young lady is here. Well, then, you
advertised, according to your report?"
"Yes, we advertised. A very craftily worded document calculated to
arouse the dilatory claimants to prompt action."
"And, did it not?"
"It did, yes."
"Then, in heaven's name why must I be disappointed in any way?"
"Because I fear the claimant--we have seen but one--is not the person
you hoped to find."
Ferrars actually smiled. "Describe the person," he said.
Without speaking, the lawyer held out to him across the table a visiting
card, a lady's card, correct according to the London mode of the hour,
and bearing a name which Ferrars read aloud with no sign of emotion in
his face.
"Mrs. Gaston Latham." He looked up with the card still between his
fingers. "Is she the solitary heir?"
"No; there are two children; girls of twelve and nine."
"And her proofs?"
"Seem to be perfect, making her the next in line of succession
after----"
"After the Brierlys, of course."
Mr. Myers nodded and the detective looked down again at the address upon
the card.
"Lives in the city, I see! Are the children with her here?"
"Only the younger, I am told. The elder has 'an infirmity,' and is at
present in an institution. It seems a great cross to the mother; in fact
her anxiety and distress, because of this child, have made her almost
indifferent about this business of the fortune. In short"--and here the
lawyer glanced askance at his _vis-a-vis_--"I'm afraid she is not
the--the sort of claimant you have expected to see. And there seems to
be no one of the other sex in the family."
"Well, well!" Ferrars threw himself back in the big office chair,
assuming an easy and almost careless attitude.
"Tell me all about her, Myers. Is she old, or young? Handsome or not?"
The face of the lawyer was overspread with a cynical smile. He had
expected to see disappointment, consternation, perhaps, in the face of
the detective, when he heard that the English claimant to the Paisley
fortune was a woman lorn and lone. His heart was in the work they were
engaged upon. Robert Brierly's interests were his own; but, still, this
cool, emotionless detective, whom he liked well, had more than once
piqued and puzzled him. He believed that Ferrars was quite prepared to
meet with, and hear of, quite another sort of claimant, and he was now
looking to see him at last stirred out of his provoking calm.
"Mrs. Gaston Latham is not a claimant to whom one could object, upon the
ground of unfitness. She would make a very handsome and gracious
dispenser of the Paisley thousands."
"Too bad that she will never get them!" And Ferrars smiled.
"She is a woman of medium height, and rather--well--plump, and while her
hair is snowy white, she does not look a day over forty. She has the
fine, fresh English colour, blue eyes, that require the aid of strong
eyeglasses, and a voice that is very high-pitched for an Englishwoman,
and that sounds, I am sorry to say--for she's really a very intelligent
and winning little lady--somewhat affected at times. She dresses in soft
grays and pale lavenders, as you may be interested to know." And here
the lawyer smiled broadly.
"That," commented Ferrars, with no cessation of his own gravely
indifferent manner, "for a 'plump' woman, is a great mistake. A plump
person should never assume light colours." And then the eyes of the two
men met, and over each face there slowly crept a smile that grew into a
laugh.
"Upon my soul, Ferrars," exclaimed the elder, "I believe you have heard
of this Mrs. Latham!"
"Not to make a mystery of it, Mr. Myers, I'll explain that I have heard
of Mrs. Latham. But, I give you my word, I did not look to find her the
claimant. You have heard us, some, or all, speak of Mrs. Jamieson!"
The lawyer nodded and a smile of meaning crossed his face.
"Well, I have lately learned that she might be found at a certain number
in Bloomsbury, and addressed, in case of her temporary absence, in care
of Mrs. Gaston Latham, an old family friend."
"I see!" The lawyer was silent a moment. Then he looked the detective
frankly in the face. "To be perfectly candid with you, Ferrars," he
said, "I have thought that you looked to see a different sort of
claimant, more than one perhaps, and that this lady could not, by any
possibility, be the expected one. I fancied this would trouble, perhaps
hinder, if not quite balk you."
"Honestly, Myers, I have wondered not a little what sort of claimant I
should meet, and I am neither surprised nor disappointed. I see what is
in your mind; you looked to see the conclusion of the game here and
soon, eh?"
"I admit it."
"And I hoped it. I do hope it. We must strike our final blow now if
ever. We can depend upon Mr. Haynes."
"Entirely."
"And you have fully enlightened him?"
"To the extent of my own knowledge?"
"Then let's call him in, and I will put my cards upon the table. We
shall need his help, but I'll explain that later."
When the English solicitor had joined them, Ferrars briefly reviewed the
events surrounding and connected with the death of Charles Brierly, and
the attempt upon Robert's life; and when he was sure that they
understood each other, thus far, and that the English lawyer was deeply
interested in the case and had committed himself to it, he summed up the
situation thus.
"You will see, of course, that I might make a bold stroke and arrest my
suspects at once; or, at least, as soon as we could lay our hands upon
them, but the case is a complicated one, and having it in my power to
make our quarry commit themselves altogether, I do not intend to leave
them a loophole of escape. I have not been entirely open with you; you
must take my word for some things. I have put the Scotland Yard men on
the lookout for our man; I do not know his name, but I think they will
have no trouble in finding him, by acting upon my hints. There is much
which even I do not understand, in his connection with the case. I do
not believe him to be the master spirit, and I want to let him have his
fling over here."
"Do you mean," broke in the solicitor, "that you do not intend to arrest
him, as soon as found?"
"He must be kept under close espionage, when traced, but so long as he
does not leave London, he must be left quite free to come and go at
will. There is much that is still hazy, concerning his appearance in
Glenville, and I look to him to lead me to another--to the other, in
fact."
"And," urged the solicitor, "do you feel safe in venturing this? May he
not shun those places?"
"Listen! The man's name I do not know, but I know what he is. There are
plotting villains in this world, who might scheme forever and still be
often penniless. This man is a gambler. In Chicago he pawned the watch
stolen from Charles Brierly's room, knowing that there was risk in so
doing, but desperate for the money it would bring. He won soon after,
and aware of danger ahead, for he had good reason to think himself
followed over there, he at once redeemed his pledge. He does not dream
that we are here, and the finances at headquarters, I have reason to
think, are running low. To play he must have money, and when he has lost
he will either pledge or sell the remainder of the jewels stolen from
the writing desk. They were of considerable value, as I have
discovered."
"Ah!" Mr. Myers looked up quickly.
"Oh, that's no secret. Hilda Grant saw the jewels, and knew their
value."
"May I ask why you presume that all the stolen jewels are in this man's
possession?" asked the solicitor.
"Because they were stolen, in the first place, not for plunder's sake,
but to mislead; and the party who took them lost no time, I am sure, in
passing them on, and out of the town. It is hardly likely they would
have divided them."
"Then you look upon this man as in truth little more than a cat's paw?"
"In some respects, yes. He does not take this view, however, and now I
want to hear all about your interview with this lady, Mrs. Gaston
Latham."
"According to your instructions," said Mr. Myers, "I remained in the
background. Mr. Haynes was the spokesman."
Ferrars turned toward the solicitor, who began at once.
"There is really very little to tell. Of course I quite understand that
the claimant was to be held off, and the next interview to take place in
your presence."
Ferrars shook his head. "I fear we must change our plans somewhat. The
fact is," here he glanced up and met the eye of Mr. Haynes, a queer
smile lighting his own, "I have found just now, that I knew a lady who
seems to be a friend of this Mrs. Gaston Latham, and an inmate of her
house in Bloomsbury. Now it might be a little awkward for me to appear
before my--the lady in question, as the opponent of her friend. In fact,
I must not appear in the matter--not yet, at any rate. And, upon my
word, Mr. Myers, since our friend has taken up the _role_ of
Spokesman-in-chief, you and I will both stand aside, just at first. May
we count upon you?"
"I shall need some coaching, of course," suggested the solicitor.
"Of course; and that you shall have at once. But first, when is she to
call again?"
"When I give the word."
"Give it at once, then; to-morrow at 2 p.m. Tell her to come alone. You
can arrange for us to hear the interview, I dare say?"
The solicitor swung about in his big chair. "You see those two doors?"
he asked, quite needlessly pointing at the two doors, at opposite
corners of the inner wall, "They open upon my private chamber of
horrors. Formerly there was a partition, and two smaller rooms The
partition has been removed. In the morning I will have my man move that
tall bookcase across the door at the right. The door, behind it, can
then stand open, and you can hear very well. I will have my desk and the
chairs moved nearer that corner. Will that do?"
"Excellently; only I must see the lady in some way."
"Then, if you will come in some slight disguise, you can sit at my
clerk's desk, over by that window, with your back to the light. I will
dismiss you, and you can go out to join Mr. Myers, through the left-hand
door."
They inspected the inner room, and Ferrars, gauging the distance with
his quick eye, made a suggestion or two regarding the placing of the
desks, and the visitor's chair, and then they sat down to discuss the
part the solicitor must take in the coming interview.
That evening when Ferrars strolled into his room after an early dinner,
he found a note from a certain police inspector, in whose charge he had
left the hunt, or rather, the watch for the suspected stranger. The note
contained a summons, brief and peremptory, and he hastened to present
himself before Inspector Hirsch.
"We have found your man," were the inspector's first words, when the
detective was left alone with him. "And it was an easy trick, too, for
all your fears to the contrary. I tell you, Ferrars, when a sport who
lives only to gamble and bet on horses, comes back to London after any
long absence, he's sure to go to one of a dozen flush places I can name,
as soon as he can get there. And, if he's heeled he'll go to them all.
Just give him time. I didn't neglect the houses of mine uncle, but I
also sent a squad around to these other places."
"And you found him?"
"We found him. And that's not all. We have found a name for him."
"Good! What is it?"
"He goes by the name of 'Quarrelsome Harry' among his kind. Harry Levey
is the way he writes it."
Ferrars pondered a moment "M--m--I'm not surprised," he said finally. "I
was sure he was that kind. What's his specialty besides being
quarrelsome?"
"Cards, and crooked bookmaking, I fancy. But Smithson, who seems to have
known him of old, says he's up to most sorts of shady business, when his
luck's down."
And the inspector went on describing the search for "Quarrelsome Harry"
who had been "spotted" at a time when he was in a fair way to prove his
right to his sobriquet. For he had been losing money all the previous
night, and had sought his room in a dingy house in Soho, in a very black
mood.
Here, so the shadow had reported, "Quarrelsome Harry" had remained
until late noonday, emerging then to lunch at a coffee-house, and to
take his way, for what purpose the watcher could only guess, to
Houndsditch, where he seemed quite at home among the Jews in several
cafes and "club rooms," where he tarried for a greater or shorter time,
and seemed to be looking for some one--some one whom he did not find, it
would seem, for he left the neighbourhood as he came, alone and with a
lowering face.
"Looking for a loan, I'll wager," declared Ferrars. "By to-morrow he'll
be visiting my uncle. I'll have to leave him to your men to-night, I
suppose, Hirsch, but to-morrow I will go on guard myself."
He made a note of the Soho street and number, where Harry Levey had
lodged, and then he took out his cigar case and the two men sat down
together to talk about London, and compare notes. For they were old
acquaintances, and could find much to say, one to another.
An hour later, when Ferrars arose to go, the inspector looked at his
watch.
"By Jove! Frank, you don't mind my calling you that, eh? It seems like
old times, half a dozen years ago. Say, it's almost the hour for the
Swiss to report. He's on duty now looking after your man; wait till he
comes in. Hobson must already have gone to relieve him, if he can find
him. Harry was airing himself along the embankment when last heard
from."
It was nearing ten o'clock, but Ferrars resumed his seat and his cigar
very willingly, and Inspector Hirsch set out a very pretty decanter of
something which he described, while pouring it into the glasses, as both
light and pleasant.
At half-past ten "the Swiss," as rank an Englishman as ever ignored his
h's, came in beaming.
He had left "'Arry," as he familiarly called the man he had been set to
guard, in a front seat in the gallery of the Vaudeville theatre in the
Strand, and Hobson was sitting just three seats away, and nearest the
"halley."
"E's got a sort of green lookin' young duffer with 'im," went on the
Swiss, "and they seem to be goin' to 'ave a night of it."
Ferrars got up quickly. "Come out with me, inspector," he said. "I may
want you to call off your man. And, say, let me have one of your badges.
It may come handy."